Seasons since my father's funeral
my mother's taken up knitting--
like Arachne at the loom she weaves
raw threads of her past
into the dyed strands of new yarn   
to keep herself from 
unraveling.
 
Skeins of bulky yarn diminish
as row upon row of stitches loop
and grow together until bit by bit--
a variegated band emerges
tethered as it is
to the sturdy wooden needle,
and is then woven into one long strand 
of woolen warmth. 
 
My mother's taken up knitting--
tunneling back from
sorrow's fog,
she replaces tears with fibers rich
in blue and brown, green and burgundy-- 
nature's hues borrowed from 
sky and earth and sea 
all pieced together
by this single pulsing
thread--
a fibrous lifeline 
to her heart. 
 
And with each newly gathered row,  
she weaves the sun 
and the moon, 
she weaves the wind 
and the sea's breath 
back into her soul.
                        

Aflame—
glinting
with flecks of gold and crimson
 
her stars detach one by one
escaping
like lonely drifting sighs
 
her spiraling foliage 
dying
spatters the ground
 
raised veins like bold lifelines
blazing 
their imprint upon the concrete
 
as if to say, all of this
  shed for you.